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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26148469">untranslatable</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/endless_dreamer/pseuds/endless_dreamer'>endless_dreamer</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>opposite of loneliness [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Asian, Character(s) of Color, Desi Character, F/F, Family, Family Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Indian Character, Post-War, Rebuilding, Siblings, South Asian, Twins, good old fashioned twin teasing, padma cant cook either, parvati cant cook</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 11:41:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,726</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26148469</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/endless_dreamer/pseuds/endless_dreamer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The spices don't give up their secrets easily.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lavender Brown/Parvati Patil, Padma Patil &amp; Parvati Patil</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>opposite of loneliness [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1898839</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>untranslatable</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Like most mornings, Parvati was roused out of bed with the alarming sound of a loud crackle followed by a low hiss and a muttered <em> Oh, shit</em>.</p><p>Sliding out of her bed and walking to the kitchen, she was unsurprised to find Padma aggressively fanning the stove as she tried to simultaneously keep watch over an egg that was frying entirely too fast and a piece of toast that was rapidly turning black.</p><p>Parvati definitely wasn’t a cook, but she figured it was safe to assume that the rapid crackling and popping sounds the egg was making were <em> not </em> ideal.</p><p>“You know, when I lived in Paris, I’d wake up every morning to French toast. With lots of whipped cream,” she informed her sister cheekily. Parvati knew better than most that she probably shouldn’t provoke her sister. Padma was a bit like an Exploding Snap card—seemingly calm until she exploded. She knew for a <em> fact </em> that her sister loathed this comparison, so of course she continued using it. </p><p>For a brief moment, she saw a hint of surprise and wariness fill her sister’s expression—like Padma hadn’t expected Parvati to still be here this morning. Parvati felt an unfamiliar rush of guilt; she’d seen this distrust on Padma’s face often, like she expected Parvati to get up and run away at any moment.</p><p>Parvati didn’t intend on going anywhere. She sat down at the table and, out of habit, put her feet up. And out of habit, Padma swatted her feet off the table, giving her a look of irritation—the distrust covered.</p><p>"If you want French toast, you can make it yourself, Miss I-Don't-Wake-Up-Before-Ten," she returned pointedly, as she gingerly levitated the attempt at a fried egg off the stove and into the trash.</p><p>"What happened this time?"</p><p>Padma broke eye contact and made a sound of exasperation and irritation. Parvati's smirk widened. "I cast the Stove-Heating spell. And then I started doing the crossword—and I was one clue from finishing, when I remembered the stove," she admitted. Padma huffed, blowing her hair out of her face.</p><p>Parvati was privately amused at how frazzled her sister looked. Normally, Padma was entirely <em> too </em> well put-together, dark hair neatly combed and pulled into a bun or meticulously straightened, with her crisp button-down shirts and perfectly ironed robes. In the morning, though, Parvati was treated to a rare glimpse of her sister's internal chaotic side—her hair messy and falling over her eyes, wearing a shirt two sizes too large. A more natural and freer Padma.</p><p>Parvati grabbed the piece of toast before Padma threw it out; she thought burnt-black toast had a rather nice texture and smoky flavor to it. "Ma's food again, then?" she said, already swinging the fridge open to pull out one of the magically enhanced Tupperware containers. They were definitely pushing the limits of their mother's food now, though, after basically surviving on it for the past two weeks.</p><p>Padma hesitated for a beat and bit on her lower lip, her fingers curling at her sides. All tell tale signs that she was displeased, mostly with herself than anyone. The slight guilt in her sister's eyes made Parvati lean over and pinch her lightly—which seemed to snap Padma out of her haze.</p><p>"What was that for?" she complained, shooting her sister a dirty look as she grabbed the Tupperware container out of her hands.</p><p>"You were being dumb again," Parvati returned, unfazed by the burst of wrath in her sister's eyes. She'd never been scared of her sister, the big bad Auror-in-training who made all quiver in front of her. Maybe it was because she knew Padma as the sister who used to try to sneak into the Gryffindor Common Room at one in the morning because she needed a hug.</p><p>(Parvati always wondered why it was Padma sneaking into the Gryffindor Common Room and not her sneaking into the Ravenclaw Common Room, and then Padma reminded her of those blasted riddles. Really, she would never understand Ravenclaws).</p><p>Grumbling slightly, Padma waved her hand (she did love to show off her wandless magic skills whenever she could). Two plates flew out of the shelves and arranged themselves on the table, amidst the books and pages of the newspaper scattered atop it. Parvati idly picked up the crossword, studying it. She’d never been as good at crosswords as her sister—who really had the patience for them?—but the idea of solving the last clue that she was stuck on was entirely too appealing to Parvati.</p><p>Padma served both of them rice, grimly scraping the edges of the container to get the last bits out. “This is the last Tupperware,” she said, with pursed lips. “So soon you’ll just have to deal with burnt eggs and toast. Sorry, Your Highness.” Rolling her eyes, she snatched the newspaper out of Parvati’s hands, refocusing intently on the crossword.</p><p>Parvati ate a spoonful of the rice, feeling her chest immediately warm. There really wasn’t anything quite like her mother’s food, with a breadth of mysterious spices and something extra that Parvati had never been able to identify. She’d tried getting her mother to tell her the secret, but only ever got a vague smile and shrug.</p><p>For a moment, she was struck with an intense sense of nostalgia. For a moment, she longed for mornings where she was lured out of bed by the unmistakable smell of a concoction of spices and garlic and onion, rather than the crackle of frying eggs. Parvati found herself quite literally drooling at the thought.</p><p>She put her spoon down. “I think the problem is that you’re making white people food,” she mused, looking straight at Padma—though her thoughts were far away, in summer mornings in their family’s flat. “Remember how Ma woke us up?”</p><p>“Screaming in our ears?”</p><p>“<em>No.</em>” Parvati couldn’t resist smiling slightly at Padma’s wry comment. “Remember what we had for breakfast, on Sunday mornings?”</p><p>Understanding sparked in Padma’s eyes, and Parvati saw her yearning mirrored on her sister’s face. “<em>Pav bhaji. </em> With tons of butter and garlic and onions,” she sighed.</p><p>Parvati was never one to sit around in her feelings. She rose to her feet, bold—and perhaps a little foolhardy—determination crossing her features. “Let’s make it. <em> Pav bhaji</em>. Ma gave us all the ingredients, right?”</p><p>When Padma and Parvati had decided to move in together rather than living with their parents, their mother had taken it upon herself to procure all the ingredients for every possible dish they’d ever want to make, scavenging through the few Indian grocery stories in Wizarding London that were still operating after the war. All the vegetables and ingredients now rested in their fridge, magically enchanted to stay fresh as long as possible. It was the only concession from Padma and Parvati that would prevent their mother from spontaneously dropping by their flat every other day. Even still, she started every letter with <em> Have you eaten enough? </em></p><p>Padma furrowed her eyebrows, looking doubtful. “I don’t know...” Her voice was filled with that cautious hesitancy that Parvati loathed. Fortunately, she’d figured out how to convince her sister to throw caution to the wind a <em> long </em> time ago.</p><p>“Ma gave us the recipe too, remember?” She waved her wand, summoning the loose sheaf of papers her mother had dubbed her “recipe book”. Mostly it was a collection of notes rather than proper recipes scribbled on whatever random sheets of parchment her mother had lying around. The graceful inelegance made Parvati smile fondly.</p><p>“I know you miss home,” Parvati continued, her voice gentler as she held her sister’s gaze. She found her sister occasionally staring at the old family pictures they’d haphazardly hung up around the flat—the only form of decorations they’d put up so far, given that they’d only been living together for a month or so now. At first, she’d thought that Padma regretted moving out. But she quickly realized that more than the place, she missed the easiness of childhood with their parents, of the peace before the war.</p><p>Parvati’s gaze flickered to a picture of her with Lavender, seeing her ex-girlfriend’s brilliant and unblemished smile.</p><p>She missed those days too.</p><p>Forcing these thoughts out of her head, Parvati refocused on her sister. She gave her a pleading look that she knew Padma simply could not resist. Sure enough, after a moment, Padma seemed to let go of her hesitations, relenting. She set her spoon down and stood up, going to the fridge. “What do we need?”</p><p>Parvati made an arrogant noise of victory, rummaging through her mother’s recipes until she found the recipe for <em> pav bhaji </em>—amused to find it scrawled on the back of a solved crossword.</p><p>She started to rattle off the ingredients: “Tomatoes, potatoes, onions, garlic,...” She noticed that her mother hadn’t bothered to provide any information about the quantities of each ingredient. But Parvati was unfazed. She’d eaten <em> pav bhaji </em> so many times before, surely she would be able to just <em> tell. </em> Besides, it was her <em> culture </em> . Surely there was something inherent within her that would guide her—the same inherent <em> thing </em> that seemed to guide her mother whenever she was cooking.</p><p>Parvati tripped up as she landed on the last ingredient.  “Spices,” she said, causing Padma to turn back towards her, an eyebrow raised.</p><p>“Just <em>spices?”</em> she questioned. Doubtful, she came to Parvati’s side to read the recipe over her shoulder. “<em>Spices</em>—<em>dry roasted, cooled, then blended to a fine powder.</em>” She laughed in apparent disbelief. “I can’t believe it—very helpful, Ma. <em>Spices.</em>”</p><p>Parvati shrugged. She wasn’t actually all that surprised by her mother’s vagueness. She found her mother always cut out certain details when telling her stories, especially about India. Her mother wove tales of necessity, which meant some relatives mysteriously disappeared from history and the timeline of events was often fangled. Was Chunu-<em>mamaji </em> born before or after Nisha-<em>chachi </em> moved to Bangalore? Depended on if you were asking about their children, or about family members who had borrowed money from them. Her mother’s fictionalizing always made Parvati angry. She felt like her mother fiercely guarded some secrets about their lives in India, like a dragon jealousy and possessively protecting the last precious remnants of its treasure. </p><p>So she approached decoding and uncovering this recipe much the same way she approached untangling her mother’s myths: with unwavering persistence, and a conviction in her own beliefs.</p><p>“We’ll figure it out,” Parvati bolstered on. “We’ve watched Ma make <em>pav bhaji </em> a thousand times, haven’t we?  It can’t be that hard to figure out.” She supposed they could ask their mother—but really, the woman was entirely too eager to find any excuse to drag them back to their family’s flat. And Parvati was enjoying her freedom, and the ability to create her own home, far too much.</p><p>Padma didn’t seem as convinced, but she nodded. She opened the spice drawer and started taking out each little jar of spices, neatly labeled in their mother’s scrawl. Lined  up on the counter, the jars of spices created a rainbow of sorts.</p><p>“Let’s start cutting the vegetables in the meantime,” Padma declared gesturing to the spices, her no-nonsense strategic Auror’s tone entering her voice.</p><p>“Yes ma’am.” Parvati cheekily saluted her, laughing as she dodged the carrot Padma threw at her in turn. She waved her wand at the knife, setting it to start chopping the tomatoes and carrots and then enchanted the peeler to start peeling the potatoes and carrots. </p><p>Meanwhile, Padma—with another flashy show of wandless magic—enchanted another knife to start chopping the cauliflower and chillies, and set a mortar to crushing the garlic cloves. The knives were flying around to the various ingredients quite hazardously; Parvati ducked just in time to avoid being accidentally stabbed by one of them.</p><p>When her mother cooked at home, all the utensils seemed so magically coordinated. Perhaps it was just her mother’s special magic.</p><p>As the knives chopped and the peelers peeled, the twins turned their attention back to the spices. Her eyes swept over their names—<em> jeera, dhaniya, saunf. </em> They seemed so vaguely familiar, and yet opaque, like they refused to give up their secrets. They reminded her of the people she saw in her and Padma’s baby pictures—figures from another world or life that should be familiar, but eluded her. Untranslatable.</p><p>“It’s probably like creating a potion—” Parvati swiveled towards Padma, her smarty-pants sister “—you took NEWT-levels Potions. You should be good at this.”</p><p>Padma gave her a dry look. “<em> Right, </em> because I learned so much from Snape when students were being dragged out of class to be Crucio’d.” Her eyes darkened for a moment, thinking of memories of a year that both of them tried to forget as much as possible. “Let’s just try each spice. Trial and error.”</p><p>She opened the first jar—labeled <em> elaichi </em> —and immediately, Parvati was hit with the scent of the cardamom chai her father in the evenings as he settled down with the <em> Prophet. </em> Normally, Padma sat beside him and the two of them worked through the crossword together; glancing over at her sister, she found an unsurprisingly blank expression on her face. She knew this to mean that Padma was overcome with emotion, so much that she had to hide it entirely for fear of breaking down completely otherwise.</p><p>“Let’s put a few of these in—cardamom, right?” Parvati nudged her sister gently. “This is fun, translating the spices. Like solving a puzzle.” </p><p>She was unabashedly trying to appeal to her sister’s cliché riddler Ravenclaw side and it was all too stereotypical of her. But it seemed to work; Padma relaxed slightly. She set a pan on a low flame and added a few cardamoms, a woodsy and aromatic scent filling the air. </p><p>They continued going down the line of the spices, identifying each spice as they went. Parvati remembered all the times she’d asked her mother what the spices where. Every time, Ma would shrug and say <em> jeera was jeera, </em> with this surprised and exasperated expression on her face—like she couldn’t understand how Parvati didn’t just <em> get </em> it. So, the spices had remained the great unresolved mysteries of her childhood.</p><p>One taste or smell was all it took to identify the spices. One taste of the <em> jeera </em> , and Parvati knew immediately: cumin. <em> Saunf: </em> fennel. <em> Haldi: </em> turmeric. With every spice she tasted, Parvati was convinced that this was the special <em> something </em> that their mother put in all of her dishes, to make them somehow taste like home. But each spice individually couldn’t seem to fully capture home. Parvati realized that it had probably been fanciful of her to assume that the something special would manifest itself in one spice, neatly packaged in a jar—like a slice of home she could always carry with her. Of course home would be something more elusive than that.</p><p>They dropped the various spices into the pan, translating the spices as they went. <em>Tej patta: </em> bay leaf. <em> Kali mirch: </em> black pepper. <em> Dalchini: </em> cinnamon. Parvati felt her mental models of these words shifting—words that she’d heard all of her life but had never known any other name for. It felt something like a clash of worlds in her own mind.</p><p>Slowly, a scent resembling <em> pav bhaji masala </em> filled the air. It wasn’t exactly like their mother’s, but both Parvati and Padma released a contented sigh when they smelled it. Parvati closed her eyes briefly, letting the scent fill her nose, then her heart. Another kind of warmth filled her. Also not the exact same as the warmth that filled her heart when she ate her mother’s food, but something that enveloped her and loved her regardless.</p><p>Padma added the last of the ingredients—a whole handful of red chilis, so many that Parvati’s eyes widened. “Are you trying to kill us?” she questioned, as Padma turned off the heat and cast a Cooling charm over the blend. </p><p>“It’s supposed to be <em> spicy, </em>” Padma returned, flashing her sister an arrogant smile. “What, do you think you’re  too weak to handle it?”</p><p>Padma knew exactly how to provoke Parvati. The Gryffindor narrowed her eyes, and stated unequivocally: “I can handle anything.” Then, she reached for one of the red chillis and took a generous bite from it...which was how she found herself chugging milk straight from the carton, as Padma laughed with unabashed schadenfreude.</p><p>She put the (rather shoddily) cut vegetables in a second pan, and began filling it with water. Parvati, being the extremely helpful person she was, hovered over her shoulder and offered supportive instructions: <em> more more more ohmygod TOO MUCH TOO MUCH ohmygod you’re going to drown us. </em></p><p>Suffice it to say, both of them were relieved when all the vegetables finally safely made their way into the pan, with minimal injury on their part (except for Parvati and her burnt tongue, but both of them agreed that that was ultimately her fault).</p><p>All that remained were the spices, which had now cooled. Parvati and Padma turned back to the spices; Padma cast a Blending spell on the spices and they dissolved into a fine powder. Something about the sight was enchanting to Parvati, like this amalgamation of lovely things coming together to something even lovelier.</p><p>Parvati watched as Padma added the <em> masala </em> powder to the <em> bhaji</em>, stirring it in. Impatient to try it, Parvati took a small sip of the <em> bhaji </em>—and immediately sputtered, reaching for the water. </p><p>“<em>Way </em> too many chilies—I’m going to burn my tongue off at this rate,” she complained as she panted, fanning her poor abused tongue. Padma laughed, unconcerned as she took a sip of her own of the <em> bhaji </em>.</p><p> “It actually tastes a lot like Ma’s, doesn’t it?” she mused, and Parvati could tell that she had been transported back to those childhood mornings eating <em> pav bhaji </em> as the summer sun filtered in and bathed their skin.</p><p>“Yes, and no,” Parvati returned. Her gaze shifted back to the jars of spices. They felt more transparent to her now that they’d revealed their names and that she’d actually used them—and yet she was still convinced there was something missing from their recipe. “Ma’s recipe is a little bit different. There’s something, I don’t know what, missing.” </p><p>Their mother’s <em> pav bhaji </em> settled heavily in her stomach and filled her up completely. The taste of garlic lingered on her tongue for hours afterward. Their <em> pav bhaji </em> , however, felt a little lighter and she was left with the slight burn of chili and garlic. But it wasn’t a <em> bad </em> burn; it was a pleasurable burn on her tongue and in her throat. </p><p>Padma nodded, seeming to understand immediately (which didn’t surprise Parvati at all; she often felt like Padma knew her own mind better than she did). Her sister furrowed her eyebrows, turning back to the spice jars. “I don’t know what it is, though, we added practically every spice...” She rummaged through the spice jars, obviously slipping back into problem-solver Ravenclaw mode.</p><p>“—it doesn’t matter,” Parvati interrupted, with an easy shrug. “We created our own recipe.” A teasing smile formed on her face. “And actually, it’s a little bit <em> better </em> than Ma’s.”</p><p>Padma swiveled to face her, snorting. “Okay, <em> you </em> can tell her that.”</p><p>Parvati giggled. She took another spoonful of the <em> bhaji </em> before Padma shooed her away so that she could toast the <em> pav </em> on the <em> tawa. </em> In the past, she might’ve hounded her mother for the exact recipe, so eager and desperate to convince her to give up those preciously guarded secrets. But now, as she glanced back at her and Padma’s baby pictures, she could understand why her mother guarded the secrets of the spices. She had protected them against the sharp edge of time, the unforgiving wrath of the oceans, and the cold chaos of war—all of which had stolen Parvati’s own connection to her past, reducing family members to strangers in pictures. She was starting to believe that perhaps their mother wanted them to fight as hard to uncover those secrets as she had to protect them.</p><p>Or perhaps, they would never find the missing <em> something </em> special inherent to their mother’s cooking. Part of her mourned it and the connection that had been severed by time and space and war. But perhaps they could take what remained and reassemble it  to hide the holes. Perhaps the something missing ultimately wouldn’t matter, because they could create their own recipe.</p><p>Padma set the <em> pav </em> on the table and the two of them started eating, eagerly scooping up the <em> bhaji </em> with the bread rolls. Parvati hummed lightly.</p><p>“Do you remember what else we did on Sunday mornings?” she mused lightly, a mischievous and nostalgic smile appearing on her face.</p><p>Padma’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion before recognition dawned on her features. “Ah, you mean our escapades to Fortescue’s. Yes, I do remember Ma forbidding us from leaving the house after that.” Though she clearly tried to resist, Parvati could see a smile of her own forming on her face.</p><p>“Please—I know you have zero regrets,” she urged, smirking slightly. Even then she’d been able to convince her sister to do anything and she had absolutely zero qualms about taking advantage of that.</p><p>Which was why she was entirely too pleased with herself when Padma continued, “Do you want to go today? After breakfast?”</p><p>Parvati beamed. “As long as you’re paying, Miss Hot-Shot-Auror.” Padma threw a <em> pav </em> at her in turn, making her laugh.</p><p>She watched her sister fondly as Padma started talking about how she didn’t actually make nearly enough as an Auror-in-training because the Ministry was <em> dumb </em> and took advantage of trainees—a rant that she’d heard all too many times. She was struck for a moment by how much she’d missed Padma—even with her overbearingness and repetitive rants and bossiness—and mourned the time they’d lost after the war. In some ways, the time had driven them further apart.</p><p>But when, after she’d finished eating, Padma grabbed her hand and tugged her to her feet—more enthusiastic and eager than she’d ever seen her before—Parvati realized that they’d actually grown closer in some ways.</p><p>Perhaps all things that seemed lost could be transmuted—reassembled and recreated.</p>
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